


Life on the wind and living on the line

by Lozlan



Category: Riftwar Saga - Raymond E. Feist
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lozlan/pseuds/Lozlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he were found out, he’d be chastised, maybe whipped, maybe have a finger removed. But what was a finger against all the gold and wine he could ever desire? The thief grinned to himself, his nerves newly steeled. And even if they did try to kill him, he’d fight his way out. He had a few loyal friends in high places, and far more in low.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life on the wind and living on the line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lorax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorax/gifts).



Jimmy the Hand leaned back his thin-boned face and breathed deeply, smiling as the familiar smells of Krondor stilled the worry in his mind. He was crouched on a crenellated rooftop, squatting on his soft-booted feet. It was a fine night, an excellent night, if perhaps a bit too bright to allow for proper thieving. As if in sympathy to his thinking, a small cloud scudded across the moon, plunging the night into momentary shadows.

“Hey - ge’off me! Ge’off I say!”

The slurred cries came from an alleyway to Jimmy’s left. The young thief picked dirt and charcoal from beneath his fingertips, shaking his head. The drunk had collapsed in the alley about ten minutes ago. An idiot thing to do. Bas-Tyra’s press gangs were out roving tonight, looking for criminals or commoners to send away to war. Jimmy winced as he heard the familiar sound of a billy club striking flesh. The only thing stupider than fighting a war was fighting two wars, he thought. And the only thing stupider than that was getting caught in an alley with your trousers down during a period of forced conscription. On a bright, cloudless night, no less.

Jimmy sat still for several more minutes, listening as the toughs dragged the drunk away, loaded his prone body into a rickety cart and drove off into the night. He watched the moon. It was roughly after nine o’clock, he guessed, tearing at a nail with his teeth. Tonight, Krondor’s most daring and good-looking thief would embark on the most foolish crime of his young life. He spat loudly, pushing himself to a standing position. After tonight, he would be as disgustingly wealthy as a noble.

A midnight market was setting up in the narrow street below. Popping his head over the corner of the roof, Jimmy savored the upwelling of smells: cooking sausage, rosemary, raspberry toffee, newly-baked bread. His stomach rumbled violently, and he turned away with a twinge of regret. There’d be plenty of time for eating after he was rich beyond compare. Besides, he always worked best when he was hungry.

A sturdy iron drainpipe ran from the rooftop down into an adjoining alleyway. Jimmy was preparing to shimmy down into the shadows when an unforeseen stab of fear made him hesitate. Gods’ Bowels!, he thought, teeth nibbling at the inside of his lip. Looking up towards the moon, he briefly re-thought his daring scheme. If he was caught, if he was found out…so what if he was? Jimmy drew in a deep breath, inclining his chin. At fourteen years, he was already indispensable to the Upright Man. So what if his little pet project wasn’t smiled upon by the Nightmaster? If he were found out, he’d be chastised, maybe whipped, maybe have a finger removed. But what was a finger against all the gold and wine he could ever desire? The thief grinned to himself, his nerves newly steeled. And even if they did try to kill him, he’d fight his way out. He had a few loyal friends in high places, and far more in low.

Gripping the drainpipe with his legs, Jimmy slid down into an empty rain barrel, startling a pack of foraging rats. He went over the facts in his head as he lightly smudged his face with grey ash. Madame Lana was a seer, a teller of fortunes and a caster of destinies. She worked her charlatanisms out of a townhouse maintained and protected by The Mockers. Jimmy snorted, finishing with his face and tying a filthy bit of cloth about his neck. He respected the Guild, but couldn’t understand why they’d extended their protection over some mumbling mystical mountebank.

Bending over a puddle, the young thief appraised his newly-transformed face. Dark rings circled his eyes, and his cheeks were stained with filth. He had patted down his clothing with grease and dirt. He looked like an orphaned dock-whelp, or even a working boy on leave from the red district. Jimmy smiled, and was satisfied with the illusion of three blacked-out teeth. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him, if she’d still been alive.

Years ago Madame Lana had been the mistress of a wealthy and stupid Duke. He was four years dead, killed in one of the first skirmishes with the Tsurani. In death he had left his beloved a perfect, flawless beryl, a gemstone of incalculable value. Jimmy's smile widened as he straightened his back, working the stubborn kinks from his sinews. According to his source, she kept the beryl sealed in a chest as a very pricey keepsake of her vanquished love.

Crick-crack! went each joint and finger. Jimmy chuckled to himself, taking quick stock of the lockpicks secured against his thigh. “Pin, tubular, disc lock,” he said in an undertone, repeating the thieves’ lullaby. The thought of someone pining over a lost lover amused and disgusted him at turns. Better to keep living life, to move on, than to mope and languish and keep things sealed in boxes. Really, was he even really stealing? Madame Lana had no family, and certainly didn’t intend to sell the beryl for profit. She might not even realize it was gone. Not that Jimmy needed to justify the theft: his hands had slid into more pockets than pies. He was merely flabbergasted at the thought of failing to take advantage of such awesome wealth. It was plainly uncivilized.

Satisfied with his disguise, Jimmy glanced up at the waxing moon. Then, maneuvering down the alleyway, he stepped into the fluttering glow of a streetlamp. People had gathered for the midnight market, and he blended easily into the crowd, his light steps and slight frame marking him as little more than a wraith. He snatched several modest purses as he wove between merchant and customer, the act almost purely instinctual.

It was time. Time for him to have his fortunes read.

He turned right at the end of the street, silently yearning for the freedom of leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Approaching a large door carved from cracked ebony wood, he knocked three consecutive times, knuckles stinging. Within seconds a panel had slid back, revealing a pair of pale, unblinking eyes.

“Whatcha want?” a woman’s voice demanded.

“Name’s Isaiah,” Jimmy whispered, cupping a conspiratorial hand to his mouth. “I’m here to, well…to have my fortune’s read, miss.”

The eyes looked less suspicious, but still wary. “D’you have the coin?” the woman demanded.

Jimmy held up a small purse and jangled it. “Enough and more,” he whispered. “Can I please come in? It’s right dark out here, and I don’t feel safe.”

The panel slid shut sharply. Within moments Jimmy heard several locks clicking, and the telltale slide of a wooden bar. Then the door opened, and the small, bedraggled woman motioned him inside.

“Upstairs,” she said, pointing needlessly. “The third room on the right. You can count, I sup’ose?”

“I can count to three at least,” Jimmy said, flashing a false nervous smile. Turning away from her, he slowly made his way up the stairs. The heavy door swung shut behind him, echoing like a newly sealed tomb.

 _Now, Jimmy,_ he thought, shaking his head from side to side. _That’s a bit of foolish superstition, that is. Next you’ll actually be believing in fortune tellers and wisewomen._

He reached a small, narrow landing. Oil lamps burned along the walls, small clay vessels that spewed copious amounts of smoke into the air. A hallway ran ahead for a short length, with doors on either side. Jimmy took a few careful steps onto the floorboards, testing them unconsciously. Even beneath his expert step the wood groaned and creaked, and he smiled, delighting in the fact that shoddy carpentry was often a thief’s greatest obstacle. That was why he loved the houses of the rich: marble floors told no secrets.

The third door on the right was much finer than the others. The wood had been polished and lacquered to an impressive sheen, glittering brightly in the lamplight. Jimmy took several quick breaths, shook out his limbs, then laid his hand on the plain brass doorknob. It was warm beneath his touch, and he turned it slowly, easing the door open and peering inside.

“Well, come in, come in! The air’s always so much colder in the hall. Do you have money? Of course you do. Laine wouldn’t have let you in otherwise.”

Jimmy stepped into the room, letting the door slide shut behind him. He looked about himself in an affect of slack-jawed wonder, turning in slow, deliberate circles. Silently he offered up a prayer to Ban-ath, the deity of night walkers and pickpockets.

The room was cramped but very well appointed. The gently curving walls were inset with cherrywood bookcases polished to the dark burgundy of bloodwine. Jimmy's expert eyes roved over the anticipated trappings of fortune-telling: bottles and books and scrolls and strangely inscribed stones and sticks of perfumed incense. A door to his left was shut and locked, presumably leading to the Madame's sleeping quarters. Drying herbs hung from the convergent rafters overhead, scenting the air and making the young thief’s head spin. A barred window looked out onto the street below, casting long, thin shadows across the bare wooden floor.

"I bid you welcome to my humble home. You are Isaiah, the tanner's apprentice?"

The voice was thick and molten, tinged with the distinct accent of the Jal-Pur Desert. Jimmy turned to his right. Behind a low table sat a large, black-skinned woman, her graying hair tied into a series of rigid cornrows. She wore an azure blouse embroidered with costly golden thread, and her dark eyes were quick and vivid and alive.

“Well, are you Isaiah or aren't you?" she asked tersely. "You may have taken a wrong turn. The 'Lady' Elena is at the end of the hall." She waved a dismissive hand, blood-red nails glimmering in the lamplight.

Jimmy shook his head quickly, stepping forward and tugging on his forelock. "Your pardon," he said, adding a swift and obeisant bow. "I'm Isaiah, right enough."

"Then scrape your jaw off the floor and have a seat." She laid her long, thick fingers on the table; Jimmy noted that they were surprisingly bare of any adornment. "My name is Madame Lana, though I suppose you know that. You have three silver pieces, of course."

Jimmy had been eying a small dried lizard on a nearby shelf, its eyes glassy and mouth agape. Now, the talk of money caused his head to whip around in a conditioned predatory fashion. "Three silver?" he said in a strained voice, barely maintaining his wide-eyed character. "That's robbery! I was told one silver, and that's all I've brought with me."

"Then you may leave," Madame Lana replied indifferently. "I am not a merchant. You are not here to haggle or peruse my wares. The price is the same for any man or woman, noble or beggar."

Jimmy nodded, suppressing his rage at the outlandish price. "It's a damn steep cost for an apprentice," he mumbled, reaching into a pocket. He felt several of the fat purses he had lifted, weighing two or three in his palm. Finally he withdrew a small leather pouch and tossed it on the table. "There," he said, forcing his voice into a submissive register. "It's all I've got. Should be enough."

Madame Lana opened the purse. As she counted the copper coins within, Jimmy stilled his anger. What was he so incensed about, anyhow? He was sacrificing a sparrow to snare a goose. Sliding his eyes along the bookcases, he sought a particular mahogany chest. Small, decorated with amethysts, inscribed with an image of a leaping fish...there. Smiling slightly, he pulled back the chair and sat at the low table, watching as the Madame carefully stacked the coins into three piles. _Go on,_ he thought, crossing his arms over his chest. _Count the money, you old crow. After tonight I'll not want for milk and honey ever again._

At length Lana nodded, gathering the coins and returning them to the pouch. "Barely enough," she said, tucking the satchel into an unseen drawer. Pointing at the opposing chair, she said tersely, "Didn't I tell you to take a seat? Come here, you gangling boy."

Jimmy ignored her opinion of his looks. Stepping forward, he pulled out the chair and seated himself at the table. The chest was directly at his back, and he adjusted the chair nonchalantly as he said, "You'll have to pardon me, ma'am. Just a bit nervous is all. I've never had any dealings with the spirit world."

Madame Lana turned her bright black eyes towards the young thief. "And are you now prepared?" she asked in a soft voice.

Jimmy nodded as he inched the chair over another few surreptitious degrees. The chest was now perfectly positioned behind his eager hands. "Aye, I think so." He paused for a moment, then said in stuttering tones, "I-i-is there anything I should be doing that I ain't?"

"Just relax," the Madame answered, rising to her feet.

Jimmy nodded earnestly, feeling out the lockpicks pressed against his thigh. The chair had an open back, and he silently whispered his thanks to Ban-ath. Only divine intervention could have orchestrated such a charmed heist.

Madame Lana reached to a high shelf and retrieved a weathered deck of cards. Turning towards Jimmy, she held them out without a word of explanation.

Jimmy eyed the cards in calculated bewilderment. "I came to have my fortunes told," he said uneasily, "not to gamble."

Lana's eyes grew large with surprise. After a moment she shook her head and sat down, gently laying the deck between them. "By the gods," she said, hand reaching up to toy with a beaded strand of hair, "is this really your first reading, boy?"

“I’m only thirteen,” Jimmy replied. “And three silver is a lot to me.”

The Madame cocked her head strangely, eyes clouding with a momentary film of white. “You are fourteen,” she said hollowly, fingers frozen on the strand of hair.

Jimmy concealed his unease, withdrawing the appropriate lockpick and passing it to his dominant hand. "Whatever you say," he muttered, sliding his hand through the back of the chair. "My mother didn't think much of me. Never even bothered to tell me my age."

"She is dead," Madame Lana said in an empty, mechanical voice. Her clouded stare caught Jimmy's eyes and held them. "Isn't she, boy?"

"And what of it?" Jimmy bit back further words, angry with himself for allowing this con woman to distress him. He focused on the lock, feeling it out with his sensitive fingers. The gentle ornamented grain of the chest was soft beneath his touch.

“She loved you very much,” Lana said, her voice growing thin and distant.

Jimmy bit back an acidic reply, sliding lower in his chair. Forcing thoughts of his long-lost mother from his mind, he allowed himself a secret, bitter grin. The Madame had taken him off guard for a moment, but only for a moment. Now she was reaching into her bag of tricks, muttering the expected trite hokum. Selecting the appropriate lockpick for the task, he struggled to bring a hint of tears to his eyes. "You really think so?" he whispered with a sniffle, blinking and imagining the pungent smell of sliced onions.

Madame Lana nodded. Rising from her chair, she moved towards the large oil lamp hanging suspended from the rafters. She was a large, powerful woman, thick of limb and waist; her sandalled feet slapped dully on the floor as she walked. “I feel that she loved you deeply," she said, reaching up and lowering the wick. The light in the room died into moody darkness, the tiny flame barely burning. What light filtered in from the streetlamps was quickly obstructed by a heavy velvet curtain.

Jimmy nearly laughed aloud as the Madame returned to her chair. Near darkness! The gods weren't merely smiling on his endeavor. Inserting the lockpick, he wiggled it around like a loose tooth, getting a feel for the tumblers. The lock was somewhat basic, one of those hoity-toity ornamental designs favored by the stupid and the rich. They could often prove complicated, but only because they were so poorly made.

Madame Lana closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and steadily. Reaching out a hand, she picked up the deck and moved it mesmerically from hand to hand. "Think on your life," she instructed, shuffling the cards briefly before extending them towards Jimmy. "Any questions, any loves, any terrors. But be warned: the cards will tell you the truth."

"I'm not afraid of truth," Jimmy replied. Releasing the lockpick, he accepted the deck with a show of mock reluctance. He began to shuffle the cards, struggling to conceal the fact that he had been playing games of chance when he was still bound up in swaddling clothes. As he clumsily passed the deck from hand to hand, Madame Lana began to mumble and sway, her chair creaking faintly. After a moment her eyes rolled theatrically back into her head.

This wasn't Jimmy's first reading, nor his hundredth. He knew the cards, knew them as keenly as he knew the darkened twists of the alleyways in the waterfront district. It was all chicanery and foolishness. He had seen grown men go pale at a bleak reading, had seen women weep at the nonsensical foretellings of street urchins eager to make a little coin. He had no belief in destiny, for all that he occasionally deigned to thank the gods for moments of great fortune. Life was luck, and cunning, and a well-concealed dagger at the hip. Giving the cards a final inept jostle, Jimmy passed the deck back to the Madame with a grimace.

Lana took no notice of the deck at first. She was muttering, rhythmically and wordlessly, rocking back and forth as her hands twisted the beaded strand of hair into knots. Jimmy had a sudden urge to reach across the table and gently pat her arm. No need for all the pyrotechnics, he wanted to say. I'm just as much of a thief as you are.

At length, the seer returned to her senses. "You have very strong energy," she announced, wiping a thin patina of sweat from her forehead. Reaching forward, she picked up the deck and held it in one hand, eyes shining with feverish intensity. "Are you prepared, Isaiah?"

“As I’ll ever be,” Jimmy said with a nervous grin. Reaching back, he resumed working at the lock, rotating the pick to the left, the right. He felt the tumblers turn grudgingly, and resisted the urge to stick his tongue between his teeth in a display of concentration.

Madame Lana nodded wordlessly. Laying out the seven cards, she raised her right hand briefly and then brought it down. There was a brief burst of light - probably a naphtha-based flash powder, Jimmy thought - and then the room died back down into darkness. The cards were barely visible on the table, and the Madame held her hands over them, moving her palms in slow concentric circles. Finally, with a slow sigh, she turned over the first of the cards.

Jimmy sucked in his breath. It was the Knave of Wands. His fingers slipped on the lockpick, and he nearly dropped it.

“This card represents the self,” Madame Lana said, tapping it gently with a finger. “The Knave of Wands is rash and impulsive, and brilliant by nature. He may or may not,” she said, thick eyebrows raising, “be a law abiding citizen.”

“That makes no sense,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “The wands, I mean. I’m a tanner’s apprentice, not a magician.”

“The cards are far more subtle than that,” Lana replied sharply. She tapped the card a final time, then leaned back into her chair. Their was a sharp, incisive light in her eyes that the thief found deeply disconcerting. “Impulsive and brilliant and, on occasion, morally dubious. Does that sound like yourself, Isaiah the tanner’s apprentice?”

Jimmy shrugged noncommittally, recovering a semblance of his cool. “Could be me," he said, ignoring the single bead of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. "I've been known to snatch a loaf of bread now and again. And once," he said, and hesitated, lowering his eyes. Long black lashes fluttered with guilt.

Madame Lana smiled faintly. "You can tell me. You are my client."

"A brooch," he said, without looking up. "For a friend's birthday. Silver and gold and rubies."

Madame Lana nodded. Opening a drawer in the table, she withdrew a small cone of incense. Without a word she stood and touched the cone to the sputtering oil lamp. Immediately the room was flooded with the commingled scents of jasmine, sage, and hashish. The Madame inhaled, her large chest rising and falling rhythmically.

Jimmy blinked as the rich blue smoke wafted up his nostrils. He coughed a little, keeping a firm grip on the lockpick. He couldn't afford for his senses to be dulled. "Is that needful?" he asked, feeling his cheeks turning a mild shade of green.

Lana re-seated herself, her eyes heavy and lidded. Without speaking she reached towards the next card in the spread, flipping it lazily. "This symbolizes your past," she said, thick fingers lingering on the card. "The Three of Coins."

 _Now, that's just plain uncanny._ "What does it mean?" Jimmy asked aloud. He twisted his hand sharply to the right as he spoke, hearing a faint, nigh-indiscernible click! as he sprung the lock. "Not wealth, I'll wager."

"You have achieved great recognition," Madame Lana replied. "Family where there was none. Expertise, personal accomplishment. And yes, wealth."

Jimmy snorted with affected disbelief. "I sleep on old furs and drink sour wine. You're reading somebody else's stars, Madame."

Lana steepled her fingers beneath her chin, transfixing the young thief with narrowed eyes. "Watch your tongue," she said, "or leave. I've no time to waste with skeptics, let alone liars."

Jimmy flashed a quick, nervous smile, tugging at the filthy rag binding his throat. "Madame, I'm no liar. But this reading...I've never even left Krondor before!" Softly, with the touch of an expert, he withdrew the lockpick from the chest and slid it into his sleeve. He knew he had overstepped his character, and blamed it on the uncanny turn of the cards. He had found a ready family in The Mockers, true; in the past three years he had achieved a level of notoriety normally reserved for veteran thieves and members of the Upright Man's court. It was even whispered that he would become the youngest Nightmaster in the history of the Guild.

He sat up straighter as he thought this, drawing in a steadying breath. Would he, Jimmy the Hand, allow himself to be unnerved by a deck of playing cards? Obviously the smoke was going straight to his head.

Lana was watching him closely. "My cards never lie," she said at length, leaning back in her chair. “Either you are deceiving me, or the spread points to something you have failed to recognize. I urge you to think on this matter."

Jimmy nodded, lowering his head deferentially. "I'll mind my tongue," he said in a submissive monotone. "But it's a harsh thing, telling someone without a scrap of anything in the world that he's got a family and a home."

Madame Lana's face softened dramatically, the lines of tension evaporating from around her eyes and mouth. "I could cast the stones for clarification," she said gently, “but I think all will become clear as we progress.” Reaching out, she flipped over the next card. “This is your present, Isaiah the tanner’s apprentice. The Chariot, ill-dignified.”

Jimmy nodded, only half-paying attention. Reaching back, he teased at the lid of the chest, testing for traps or secondary locks.

“You wield the rod of power,” Lana said, passing a steady hand over the cards. “You are in a position of might and prestige, but are simultaneously driven before the storm." She paused, her face clouding with fresh suspicion. "Another strange, strange card.”

"I've managed to avoid Bas-Tyra's press gangs," Jimmy supplied quickly. "Could that be what it means?"

"Possibly." Lana raised a single questioning eyebrow. "You have no desire for glory in battle?"

“Glory is for the dead. I prefer to live.”

"Indeed." The Madame waved a hand at the cards, a simple silver bracelet shining on her wrist. "These agents of fortune cannot lie. You may not pine for glory, but you have it regardless."

The lid of the chest opened gradually. Jimmy allowed himself a triumphant smirk, then froze as he detected a slight, telltale weight. Could it be trapped? "Let's continue," he said, cursing at this sudden heinous turn of luck. "Maybe things will start to make more sense."

Lana nodded. “This next card symbolizes the ultimate outcome, your distant future.” Turning it over, she revealed an ill-dignified Sun.

Jimmy forced himself to relax, focusing briefly on the revealed portent. The remainder of the cards in this spread would deal with his uncertain future, which could be anything Madame Lana pretended it to be. She would probably tell him that he’d become a rich merchant, fat and happy and prosperous. That would please the average customer, lift their spirits and disincline them to demand the return of their silver. Again he lifted the lid of the chest, felt the unmistakable trembling of a needle linked to the lid by a fine, transparent wire. A poisonous stinger, designed to kill the unwary thief.

Madame Lana observed the card for a moment, then plucked a small cup from a nearby bookcase. “I must cast the stones,” she muttered, shaking the receptacle in her left hand. Muttering wordless phrases, she tossed the stones on the table, where they spun and trembled for a moment before lying still. She leaned forward, dusky brows creasing with concentration; then with a sudden start she fell back into her chair, fixing Jimmy with curious and perplexed eyes.

“Interesting” she said simply.

Jimmy swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Fingers hovering a mere inch away from death, he demanded, “What’s interesting? What do you see?”

The Madame didn’t acknowledge him. Her eyes had gone completely blank; one finger remained pressed against the revealed card. “Even inverted, the Sun is a good symbol,” she said in a husky voice. “Further success, material gains. I see…I see royalty in your future.”

Jimmy couldn’t suppress his laughter. “Royalty!” he scoffed, slapping a hand on the table. “Now that’s a good jest. Trust me, I don’t know any royals, and never will.”

“I see flame,” Madame Lana continued in a hollow voice. She clearly hadn’t perceived Jimmy’s laughter or scorn. “It is a fire I have foreseen before. Fire, burning below the city, ready to consume all of Krondor.”

Jimmy slid a small iron hook into his hand. He had to disarm the trap, a mean feat without the use of his eyes. As he delicately slid the hook beneath the trapped lid, he said, "I use fire for tanning. Could that be what you see?"

Madame Lana shook her head faintly. “You will live in prosperity, and die in the flames,” she said, her voice rising and falling like foam-crested waves.

“Is that so? Sounds painful. Will the flu back up, or will I get drunk and careless with a candle?”

“We move on to the next card,” Lana said, ignoring his question entirely. Jimmy privately admired her professionalism as he triggered the trap, the sprung needle catching on his metal hook. Slowly, agonizingly, he bent the poisoned tine aside.

The Madame flipped the next card. “Your immediate future,” she said. “The Emperor.” Pausing for a moment, the fortune teller’s lips moved soundlessly, and she again gathered together the stones and cast them. Bending low over the resultant augury, she said, “The figure of a father, or the figure of a prince. Or both.”

Again, Jimmy laughed. “I’ve never had a father,” he said, “and the noble prince is a prisoner in his own dungeons."

“You are very well-informed,” Lana replied suspiciously. She pushed the card forward, long painted fingernails glistening. “Believe me when I say that I see a father’s shadow extending over you. It is the silhouette of a very upright man.”

Jimmy’s heart very nearly froze. Carefully, carefully, he bent back the top of the chest, praying that the hinges were well-oiled and silent. “There’s only one Upright Man in Krondor,” he said as he worked, desperately hoping that Lana’s choice of words was merely coincidental; if not, the reading had just become a very thinly-veiled threat. Reaching inside of the chest with nervous fingers, he felt the smooth, multi-faceted coolness of a gemstone.

Madame Lana met his eyes, her mouth curving into a crafty smile. “Indeed,” she said. “Shall we look at your final card? This is the intermediary future, located between immediacy and outcome.” Flipping it over, she exposed a card that made Jimmy suck in a tight breath. All his suppressed superstitious nature, all his bluffing and scoffing at portents, crumbled at the image of The Tower, ill-dignified.

Madame Lana noted his reaction. “You’ve seen this card before,” she said, that smile still lingering on her bright red lips. “But then again, you’ve seen all these cards before. Haven’t you, Isaiah?”

The beryl was cold and hard against Jimmy’s palm. Quickly he tucked it into a pocket and retrieved the lockpick from his sleeve, closing the chest and coaxing the tumblers locked. “All right,” he said, making a quick, desperate decision. “I admit, I’m no stranger to fortunes. I just wanted to see if you were as good as everyone says.”

“I am better than they say,” Madame Lana asserted. Glancing down at The Tower, she said, “Great tribulation is coming. Greater than these petty wars with Kesh and the Tsurani. I have sensed the gathering storm, have witnessed the omens and auguries, but I have never encountered a man whose destiny is caught up in these dreadful events.” Reaching forward, she seized Jimmy’s left hand, squeezing his long, dexterous fingers.

The chest locked silently. Jimmy pulled his hand free and stood up, looking at the mystic as though she were completely mad. “I lied about a lot of things,” he admitted freely, “but not about my destiny. I don’t have one. I’ve never had one.”

Madame Lana rose from the chair, her bulky form towering over the red-faced pugnacious boy. “Would you like me to return your silver?” she asked coldly, reaching into her pocket. “Most indentured craftsmen would be delighted to learn that they have a great future in store. But you seem content with your lot.”

Jimmy reached an unconscious hand into his pocket. The beryl was of goodly size, larger than he’d anticipated. It would sell for thousands of gold, especially if the cutting was as precise as it felt to his experienced fingers. He would sell it and put the money away, hiding it from the Guild. Then, when he was old and grey, long after his fingers had become contorted with gout, he would still have the riches to sustain himself. “Keep the money,” he said aloud, backing towards the door. “I don’t mind being a tanner. Every man should know his place.” Turning his back on Lana, he reached for the door and seized the handle.

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Jimmy the Hand.”

Jimmy’s fingers froze on the brass latch. Turning slowly, he reached up and brushed a dark lock of hair from his eyes. “What’d you call me?” he asked in a cracking voice, a boy’s voice.

“Jimmy the Hand,” Madame Lana repeated. Reaching up, she lengthened the wick of the oil lamp, causing a warm glow to suffuse the room. Then, walking over to the chest, she tested the lid. “Still locked,” she said appreciatively. “You are a professional. Tell me, who marked me out? Was it a customer, my landlord, who?”

Jimmy shrugged his shoulders, reaching into his pocket. He was a pragmatist, and had no difficulty in admitting his defeat. Withdrawing the beryl, he held it up to the light. “You’re a crafty old bird,” he said, staring at the jewel with a gemologist’s impeccable eye. “And you’ve laid a very pretty egg, if I might say so.”

The beryl was breathtakingly beautiful. The size and shape of a Bantam egg, it was carved with the utmost care, its facets shot through with racing green flames. As he stared at it, Jimmy felt the stirrings of desire and possession. It was a far finer gem than he had dared hope for. If he could somehow escape, go into hiding, conceal his find from the Mockers and discredit Madame Lana’s claims…

“I am at an impasse,” Lana said, breaking into his avaricious thoughts. Looking down at the table, she tapped the inverted Tower with one blood-red fingernail. “I knew you were false, but this reading is true. Jimmy, you have a destiny. I cannot say more, but you are meant for great deeds and great power.”

Jimmy averted his eyes from the beryl. “It’s all nonsense,” he said, aware of the uncertainty in his voice. “Someday I might be the Nightmaster, or even the Upright Man, but I’ll never feast alongside princes. Far too stuffy for my taste.”

“You see my dilemma,” Madame Lana continued, waving aside his words. “As I’m sure you know, this is a tenement maintained by the Mockers. If I’m forced to report this theft, well…there wouldn’t be much of a future for you at all. Would there, boy?”

Her words shook Jimmy from his foolish desires. Lowering the beryl, he hesitated, then tossed it on the table. It spun and came to rest over his ultimate future, the fortunes and fires of the ill-dignified Sun. “Keep your stone,” he said coldly. “I’ve no need of it.”

Madame Lana’s lips curled into the same crafty smile. Picking up the stone, she secreted it in a pocket of her azure dress. “Go,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “You have more work to do this night.”

Jimmy turned away, swallowing an insult. As he opened the door he heard Lana clear her throat gently.

“Know this, James,” she said in a soft, almost apologetic voice. “The lady Anita is not for you. Look for the man named Locklear.”

Jimmy ran out the door, desperately hoping to conceal his blush. He ran down the steps, tore out the front door, and scaled the nearest drainpipe. Within moments he was sitting in the free night air, breathing deeply, long gangling limbs tucked in at his sides. Looking up at the moon, he sighed bone-deep, trying to force the memory of the perfect, flawless, priceless gemstone from his mind. Holding up a hand, he tried to grip the moon between his thumb and forefinger, a bright opalescent stone that he could trade for all the gold in the world. Briefly he wondered if anyone else had a claim on the moon, and if stealing it could really be considered a theft at all.

There was some unusual noise in the night market in the street below. Jimmy glanced downwards just in time to see the familiar face of Jocko Radburn, looking slightly the worse for wear, weaving through the crowds with sword drawn. He led a heavily armed contingent of men who moved with simultaneous purpose and stealth, careful not to alarm the horde of evening shoppers.

His curiosity piqued, Jimmy ran to the edge of the rooftop and stared down with his hawkish eyes. All thoughts of riches and destinies vanished from his mind as he picked out the clear object of their pursuit, a thin, serious-faced man haggling over a bright red cloak. _Maybe I can make a profit of this night yet_ , he thought to himself with a small grin. Then, shimmying down the drainpipe, he cautiously made his way toward the distressed man with the very questionable fashion sense.


End file.
